


The First Rule

by amfiguree



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's part of the job description, knowing what Dom needs before Dom does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Rule

Arthur's the best there is in the field. That's never been in question.  
  
He's dependable, meticulous, quick on his feet. And he understands Dom, even if he doesn't know everything about him. He's working on that, though, been piecing Dom together since their first job together seven years ago, hoarding the information like Dom hoards his memories.  
  
It's part of the job description, knowing what Dom needs before Dom does.  
  
  
  
Arthur lies about Mr. Charles.  
  
The first time, the plan goes south because of Mal.  
  
"What the hell happened back there?" Arthur demands, when they wake up panting, nothing to show for their latest adventure but a botched job and his aching ribs.  
  
Dom shakes his head. "Listen--"  
  
"Was that _Mal_?" Arthur says, without waiting for him to finish. "How--"  
  
"I don't want to talk about it," Dom snarls, ripping off his wrist patch, and Arthur knows a lost battle when he sees one.  
  
That's the first time.  
  
The second, well--  
  
 _Two for two,_ Arthur thinks, when Saito's men grab him, twist his arm and force him to his knees, shove his cheek against the floor.  
  
  
  
He isn't lying when he tells Ariadne that Mal was lovely.  
  
He simply neglects to mention that she could also, on occasion, be a raging, psychopathic bitch.  
  
  
  
It happens because it has to; Dom's guilty and alone, and Dom has needs.  
  
Arthur's job is taking care of them.   
  
So the next time it happens, Arthur's ready for it.  
  
He doesn't say a word, not when she shows up, or when she starts shooting, or when he shoves the barrel of his gun against his temple after getting Turney's projection sheet, and they wake up in their dank motel room to the smell of mold and sweat-soaked sheets.   
  
Dom disappears into the bathroom to make the call to their client, and when he comes back, Arthur's slung his jacket over the armchair, pulled off his shirt and is starting on unbuckling his belt.  
  
Dom falters in the doorway.  
  
Arthur fumbles the belt twice, knuckles white and shaking. But once he gets it off he says, "Come on, then," briskly, and steps out of his pants, out of everything, as Dom stares.   
  
"You--" Dom says, voice strangled. "Arthur."  
  
It's not _no_.  
  
"Jesus, Boss," Arthur says, stepping close enough to wrap Dom's tie around his wrist and yank him forward. "Do I have to do everything around here?"  
  
Dom makes a noise, low and helpless, and then Arthur's pinned down on the bed by his mouth and his hands and his weight. Arthur tips his head up as he fists a hands into the collar of Dom's shirt, jerks him closer as he spreads his legs, slips a hand down between them to work Dom free.  
  
Dom's already panting, lips bruised and spit-shiny, and he pulls out of Arthur's grasp, away, as Arthur steadies him, presses his face into the mattress, murmuring words Arthur can't hear.   
  
It's over, quickly, and after - After.   
  
"What we're doing," Dom says, suddenly, from where he's still sprawled flat on his back in the bed. He's still dressed, pants gathered loosely at his knees. Arthur's bent gingerly over the side of the mattress, tying up his shoelaces. "This -- we need ground rules. I don't want you to--"  
  
"Fight club," Arthur says, steadily. He straightens, meets Dom's eyes head-on.  
  
Dom swallows. "Yeah," he says, eventually.   
  
"Yeah," Arthur repeats. His breathing feels too loud in the room as he reaches into his pocket, clenches his fingers around his die. "I got it."  
  
  
  
It's sporadic, no fixed time, or dates.   
  
Sometimes Dom looks at him in the midst of a meeting, a sideways glance with his mouth drawn tight, and Arthur excuses himself from the table and goes to wait in the bathroom; sometimes Dom just _takes_ , barely waits for Arthur to get the IV out of his arm before he's reaching for him, the high of a heist gone well still singing in their veins.  
  
Sometimes, Dom goes for weeks without.  
  
  
  
"How did we not know about this?" Dom says, furious. Arthur checks Saito's pulse, gets nothing but a faint whisper. "You could've gotten us all _killed_ , Arthur--  
  
\-- _Arthur,_ " Dom murmurs, reaching for him, thumb soft on Arthur's mouth, fingertips leaving indents along the curve of Arthur's jaw.  
  
He tells himself it's curiosity when he offers himself up as a voluntary research subject; he's always been interested in inner-ear function.  
  
Yusuf sets up a trial without question.  
  
He dreams of Dom, memory blending into dream bleeding into reality. Dom's hands hot on his skin, breathing ragged in his ear. "Mal," Dom moans, clawing at Arthur's chest till the skin splits and there's blood drying beneath his fingernails.   
  
He startles awake, pulse stuttering under his skin. Dom's in the far corner of the room, perusing a book, and Arthur drops his palm from his chest, reaches instead for his die. Yusuf puts a hand on his shoulder, concerned, and Arthur, once he catches his breath, swears _never again_.  
  
The next time, Dom reels him in, nips at his jaw, lower, leaves his mark. The next time, Dom says, "Arthur," and kisses him, hard and hot and needy. The next time--  
  
"I'm sorry," Arthur says, jaw tense, and looks back at Saito. "It should have shown up in the background check."  
  
  
  
He shouldn't be surprised when Mal finds out.  
  
She has back-up, and he's at a disadvantage.   
  
Dom raises his hands. "Mal," he says, slowly.  
  
"It's him, isn't it?" Mal says. "You're--" Her voice hitches, but her fingers are steady on the trigger.   
  
"You don't have to--"  
  
She shatters both his kneecaps, then his right shoulder, punctures his lungs and his windpipe, firing bullet after bullet in rapid succession.   
  
Arthur can barely scream through the pain. He whines with each breath, tasting the sharp tang of copper in his mouth. The edges of his vision start to blur, and his hands are twisted helplessly in the carpet.   
  
"Mal," Dom says. It's a sick, sick sound, low in his throat.  
  
"You promised me," she says.  
  
Arthur's choking, blood and breath mingling as he gasps, and the last thing he sees is the barrel of Dom's gun.   
  
Then he jerks awake, panting, sliding off his chair as he tries to curl into himself, chest burning with phantom pain.   
  
Dom comes to seconds later (an eternity later). "Hey, hey--"   
  
"You got the papers," Arthur says.  
  
Dom pauses, hand outstretched. "Yeah," he says.   
  
"Good."  
  
"Arthur," Dom says. "I--"  
  
Arthur rolls to his feet with an easiness he doesn't feel. "Fight club," he says. His voice is even.   
  
Dom watches him for a moment, eyes dark and inscrutable. "You don't look like the Fight Club type," he says, at last.  
  
"No," Arthur agrees, mouth twisted mirthlessly. "You should make the call."  
  
Dom slants his gaze away, chin dropping to his chest when he nods and leaves.  
  
The burn in Arthur's chest doesn't fade.  
  
  
  
He knows what Eames thinks of him: a dull, unimaginative stick-in-the-mud.  
  
If Eames only knew how often he dreams of the impossible.


End file.
